Proof that robots will never be authors

Here’s a randomly generated short story I created using Plot Generator – a site that lets you input various details and then creates a random story with your settings. You can use it to get inspiration or just to mess about and have a laugh. The results are proof that creative writing involves a little more than putting the right elements in the right order. Then again, perhaps my settings were a tad silly. Read on and see for yourself…

The Tiny SandwichA Short Story

Gemma Parker looked at the tiny sandwich in her hands and felt lonely.

She walked over to the window and reflected on her dull surroundings. She had always hated noisy Newton Abbot with its vast, vigilant volcanoes. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel lonely.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Cameron Olsson. Cameron was a grateful deity with sticky feet and ugly warts.

Gemma gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a brutal, clever, tea drinker with ginger feet and short warts. Her friends saw her as an arrogant, alert angel. Once, she had even made a cup of tea for an unpleasant disabled person.

But not even a brutal person who had once made a cup of tea for an unpleasant disabled person, was prepared for what Cameron had in store today.

The drizzle rained like laughing bears, making Gemma sad.

As Gemma stepped outside and Cameron came closer, she could see the amused smile on his face.

Cameron glared with all the wrath of 8444 sinister fast frogs. He said, in hushed tones, “I hate you and I want a pencil.”

Gemma looked back, even more sad and still fingering the tiny sandwich. “Cameron, I’ve got a new job,” she replied.

They looked at each other with shocked feelings, like two hungry, handsome humming birds eating at a very daring wake, which had drum and bass music playing in the background and two thoughtful uncles running to the beat.

David Cameron was thinking about Maggie the Corpse again. Maggie was an asinine milk-stealer with claws and fangs.

David walked over to the window and reflected on his grasping surroundings. He had always loved heartless City with its sneezing, spilt suits. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel megalomanic.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the an asinine figure of Maggie the Corpse.

David gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was an elitist, sociopathic, baby tears drinker with haggard claws and rotting fangs. His friends saw him as a sneezing, spilt slug. Once, he had even jumped into a river and saved a determined CEO.

But not even an elitist person who had once jumped into a river and saved a determined CEO, was prepared for what Maggie had in store today.

The gloom teased like spittlelicking rats, making David nauseous. David grabbed a gold-plated abacus that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.

As David stepped outside and Maggie came closer, he could see the bloody glint in her eye.

“Look David,” growled Maggie, with a pompous glare that reminded David of asinine . “I hate you and I want eternal worship. You owe me 4009 pounds.”

David looked back, even more nauseous and still fingering the gold-plated abacus. “Maggie, oh Goddess,” he replied.

They looked at each other with dejected feelings, like two light, late lice sneering at a very cruel wake, which had disco music playing in the background and two greedy uncles grasping to the beat.

David studied Maggie’s claws and fangs. Eventually, he took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I declared myself bankrupt,” explained David. “You will never get your money.”

“No!” objected Maggie. “You lie!”

“I do not!” retorted David. “Now get your claws out of here before I hit you with this gold-plated abacus.”

Whaddya mean? That’s as good as a lot of published authors. If it lacks originality and gets too repetitive you just make it into a trilogy, no matter how many near identical books are actually in the series. Just ask George R.R. Martin.

Cuthbert Blarney had always hated violent Valhalla with its vast, villainous Vikings. It was a place where he felt elated.

He was an irritable, aloof, red wine drinker with spotty ears and bald fingers. His friends saw him as a curved, crazy changeling. Once, he had even made a cup of tea for a spewmungous mud wrestler. That’s the sort of man he was.

Cuthbert walked over to the window and reflected on his drunk surroundings. The windy teased like terrorising sloth.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Jemma Johnson. Jemma was a cheeky woodpecker with uncoordinated ears and gangly fingers.

Cuthbert gulped. He was not prepared for Jemma.

As Cuthbert stepped outside and Jemma came closer, he could see the alert glint in his eye.

“I am here because I want a potted meat sandwich,” Jemma bellowed, in a moody tone. He slammed his fist against Cuthbert’s chest, with the force of 7425 wolf. “I frigging hate you, Cuthbert Blarney.”

Cuthbert looked back, even more dejected and still fingering the wooden sword. “Jemma, I’m a vegetarian,” he replied.

They looked at each other with confused feelings, like two hungry, homeless hamster singing at a very bubbly wedding, which had heavy metal music playing in the background and two melancholy uncles drinking to the beat.

Cuthbert studied Jemma’s uncoordinated ears and gangly fingers. Eventually, he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you a potted meat sandwich,” he explained, in pitying tones.